Sunday Reverie

San Jacinto Wildlife Preserve
Lakeview, CA
photographer: Carl Jackson 

I’ll tell you how the Sun rose –
A Ribbon at a time –
The Steeples swam in Amethyst –
The news, like Squirrels, ran –
The Hills untied their Bonnets –
The Bobolinks – begun –
Then I said softly to myself –
‘That must have been the Sun!’

But how he set – I know not –
There seemed a purple stile
Which little Yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while –
Till when they reached the other side,
A Dominie in Gray –
Put gently up the evening Bars –
And led the flock away –

Emily Dickinson





Carl Jackson's photographs are available for purchase here.
You can purchase notecards and prints here.

The Struggle

After rain

Trump's grand and vulgar self-absorption is inviting all of us to examine our own selfishness. His ignorance calls us to attend to our own blind spots. The fears that he stokes and the isolation he promotes goad us to be braver, more generous.

James S. Gordon, founder of The Center for Mind-Body Medicine 

The whipsaw of anger and sitting in stillness.

A long time ago Sophie began to seize and I began to resist.

A long time ago I placed the baby in the middle of the bed while she screamed and got into the shower, turned on the water and crouched there under it. The word drown covers both the sound and my life, in those moments.

A long time ago I also rocked my baby and recited a mantra as she screamed for hours and hours. I've written that sentence, juggling those words, over and over for the last two decades. Sometimes I write more than twenty years. A while back I wrote over ten years ago. 

While the baby screamed I recited the words of Thich Naht Hanh over and over, aloud.  Breathing in I calm myself, breathing out I smile.

When I feel most angry I sit with it feeling its flood. Lately, I go to water, swim back and forth, fluid and cutting.

Anger both cuts out the noise and is the noise. It is both distraction and diversion and the means to focus and sharpen.

Sophie and her seizures prepared me for resistance and for anger.

The peace that came was not something to work on, that I worked on but was, rather, imposed.

The story of the angel and Jacob, wrestling on a hill.



A little East of Jordan (145)

A little East of Jordan, 

Evangelists record, 

A Gymnast and an Angel 

Did wrestle long and hard – 

Till morning touching mountain – 

And Jacob, waxing strong, 

The Angel begged permission 

To Breakfast – to return! 

Not so, said cunning Jacob! 

"I will not let thee go 

Except thou bless me" – Stranger! 

The which acceded to – 

Light swung the silver fleeces 

"Peniel" Hills beyond, 

And the bewildered Gymnast 

Found he had worsted God!

Emily Dickinson

Gaugin, The Vision After the Sermon (Jacob wrestling with the Angel), 1888

Fleeing to Poetry and ...

This weekend I'm determined to not be swept away by all the terrible stuff going down in our country. I'm fleeing, actually, to poetry and other ecstatic things.



I'm listening to the first of this intriguing series on the Poetry Foundation website called A Change of World.




I'm reading Emma Cline's novel The Girls. It's a bit creepy, but to be honest, I haven't been able to stick with a novel in months.

I'm also into this poem:

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun - 

In Corners - till a Day 

The Owner passed - identified -

And carried Me away -

And now We roam in Sovreign Woods -

And now We hunt the Doe -

And every time I speak for Him

The Mountains straight reply -

And do I smile, such cordial light

Opon the Valley glow -

It is as a Vesuvian face

Had let it’s pleasure through -

And when at Night - Our good Day done -

I guard My Master’s Head -

’Tis better than the Eider Duck’s

Deep Pillow - to have shared -

To foe of His - I’m deadly foe -

None stir the second time -

On whom I lay a Yellow Eye -

Or an emphatic Thumb -

Though I than He - may longer live

He longer must - than I -

For I have but the power to kill,

Without - the power to die -

Emily Dickinson

and listening to this poem by Billy Collins which, whether you look at it as a seduction of Emily's mind or body, is terribly sexy and just sets a good tone or tune or --- (as Emily would do)

Readers, what are ya'll doing this weekend?

You Cannot Fold a Flood

So, um, the hives came back.

My instincts are evidently still pretty sound. That big 'ole bolus of Vimpat was the wrong approach. The Sweet Doctor Whose Name Rhymes with Kevorkian confirmed them. He got on the phone with Doogie and our regular neuro and pulled the Vimpat. When I pulled back Sophie's hospital gown and saw the giant hives covering her, I felt terror (not at the hives but at the feeling they don't know what they're doing), a rush of anger (not at the doctors but at The SITUATION) and then just that same preternatural calm that I imagine has everything to do with Hospital Time and the weird stasis that comes along with sitting next to your child in a hospital bed for hours and hours. Then Sophie's father came in to spend the night with her and I drove the streets of the shitty back to my bed and fell into a deep sleep and dreams of boats and waves and whales. Honestly, I did.

So, what's the plan? The plan is to increase Onfi, the benzo, and work with the CBD. Someone asked me yesterday why I would continue to use the CBD when "it wasn't working." I'm not sure why Sophie fell out of the pretty decent seizure control she had for nearly three years. Maybe it was a virus, maybe it was the switch from brand to generic hormones, maybe it was a tilt in the earth's axis. As you can see (and what I've been writing and railing about for the past twenty years), the best doctors in the land don't know a lot either. Cannabis medicine is not a cure for seizures, but it's the only thing that has made a dramatic difference in her life. I really do think that we need to tinker with it and with the Onfi to get back to some kind of sanity. There are studies "out there" showing that the combination of Onfi and CBD helps to decrease seizures for some people. We're not fond of Onfi because it's basically a terrible drug that causes profound addiction and tolerance, but I think playing with it is in order.

I'll keep you posted. Thank you for buoying us the last few days. It means the world.







Here's a poem by the great Emily Dickinson that one of my friends sent me. Thank you, Anne.

You cannot put a Fire out—
A Thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a Fan—
Upon the slowest Night—

You cannot fold a Flood—
And put it in a Drawer—
Because the Winds would find it out—
And tell your Cedar Floor—

Emily Dickinson

Grounded

I took that photo with a fancy camera that a friend let me borrow. I felt almost giddy when I peered through the lens and saw these magnificent creatures. That's the female bald eagle on the right, and the male has just flown in. The sky was impossibly blue, and the nest was perched high above a canyon and dam, at the top of a spindly tree. The male flew in and the female left. Then the female flew back and the male left. Eagles soar. The chicks poked their heads up every now and then, I sighed and felt the same sense of exhilaration each time. It was breath-taking, a sight I will never forget.

I also saw my first owl -- four Great horned Owls up in a tree behind a library near Huntington Beach. Some of you might remember that I lived in the woods for three weeks on Whidbey Island last summer. I had a three-week residency at Hedgebrook that seems like a dream today, but I swear it happened. What didn't happen there is that despite all of the other women seeing owls and my hearing owls, I never did catch sight of one. I didn't take it personally and decided that perhaps I was meant not to see an owl, but I've had an obsession with owls since childhood when I collected them in the way that nerdy, bookish girls collected things in the early seventies. I even hooked an owl rug in green and orange that hung over my bookshelf whose top was covered with them.

So there you go.

After seeing the four owls sitting in the tree, I teared up. The tears ran down my face when one of the adults swiveled its head and looked right at me. I could swear I had one of those spirit encounters. My friend gave me that gift, that encounter. Over the last fifteen or so years, I've felt, often, like I'm stifling panic, like I'm going through life strongly but more willfully than naturally. It's a pick your baby up and stash her under your arm and run away, away, away kind of feeling and I've had it more often than not. It's a lonely feeling. It's a Dickensonian my life is a loaded gun kind of feeling, and when I gazed into the owl's eyes or she gazed into mine I could feel the wind at my back but peace ahead and maybe even right there in front of me.

After I saw the owls, I wandered with my friend through the park, looked up through bark and branches and leaves to green and a portal to blue sky. It was almost too much so I lay down on the ground and closed my eyes, felt the good good earth at my back.

An Espresso

We all need a pick-me-up.

An em dash.

—

#764 as Solace

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun (764)

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -

In Corners - till a Day

The Owner passed - identified -

And carried Me away -

And now We roam in Sovreign Woods -

And now We hunt the Doe -

And every time I speak for Him

The Mountains straight reply -

And do I smile, such cordial light

Opon the Valley glow -

It is as a Vesuvian face

Had let it’s pleasure through -

And when at Night - Our good Day done -

I guard My Master’s Head -

’Tis better than the Eider Duck’s

Deep Pillow - to have shared -

To foe of His - I’m deadly foe -

None stir the second time -

On whom I lay a Yellow Eye -

Or an emphatic Thumb -

Though I than He - may longer live

He longer must - than I -

For I have but the power to kill,

Without - the power to die -

Emily Dickinson 

An Incongruous Mermaid***

I started Early - Took my Dog -
And visited the Sea -
The Mermaids in the Basement
Came out to look at me -

And Frigates - in the Upper floor
Extended Hempen Hands -
Presuming Me to be a Mouse -
Aground - upon the Sands

But no Man moved Me - till the Tide
Went past my simple Shoe -
And past my Apron - and my Belt
And past my Bodice - too -

And made as He would eat me up -
As wholly as a Dew
Upon a Dandelion's Sleeve -
And then - I started - too -

And He - He followed - close behind -
I felt His Silver Heel
Upon my Ankle - Then my Shoes
Would overflow with Pearl -

Until We met the Solid Town -
No One He seemed to know -
And bowing - with a Mighty look -
At me - The Sea withdrew

Emily Dickinson, c. 1862




***I posted this years ago, and I just love it so I'm posting it again.

This, again

Yowza!

Ruin is formal, consecutive and slow

The Last Bookstore, Los Angeles

Holy Mackerel. I don't think I've ever read this one before, and while I wonder why, how often is it that you read a poem by your favorite poet for the very first time? I'm grateful to have missed it, to read it new.


Crumbling is not an instant's act (1010)

Crumbling is not an instant's Act

A fundamental pause

Dilapidation's processes

Are organized Decays —

'Tis first a Cobweb on the Soul

A Cuticle of Dust

A Borer in the Axis

An Elemental Rust —

Ruin is formal — Devil's work

Consecutive and slow —

Fail in an instant, no man did

Slipping — is Crashe's law —

Emily Dickinson

Silenced Women, Books and Poetry

via The New York Times

I've been listening to Elizabeth Gilbert's novel The Signature of All Things on the recommendation of our dear Mary. To be honest, I was not a big fan of Eat, Pray, Love but have always admired Gilbert's writing and speaking, her take on life and her gentle demeanor (I saw her once, live, with Annie LaMott). Her new book is read by Juliet Stevenson, the great English actress, and perhaps part of the love affair I'm having with the story and the writing is due to Stevenson's exquisite interpretation. I think, though, that the book is just plain interesting and beautifully written. I generally take forever to listen to an audible version of a book -- I have a hard time staying with the story and don't think my ears are as connected to literature as my eyes, if that makes sense. In any case, though, I'm getting toward the end, unable to listen to it in my car because of some lurid details that I don't want the boys to hear, and I might even lie on my bed and finish it up -- just lie there and stare at the ceiling with earplugs in my ear. 

I'm struck, over the last few days, as I immerse myself in listening to this story of a late eighteenth, early nineteenth century woman by just how constrained women's lives were for most of written history. The constraints were so pervasive and affected every aspect of their lives, including sexuality -- maybe especially sexuality -- until very recently. And then I think about how women are shamed and silenced even today, sometimes spectacularly but more usually, silently and subtly -- even by themselves. I can honestly say that I've felt stifled over the last couple of days, perhaps over-aware of my opinions, my outspoken-ness, my sharp tongue. I wonder if men feel this way regularly, whether they feel the need to second-guess their intentions, apologize for the way they deliver their thoughts or feel "less than" because of them.

Although I can't begin to fully understand it, I think Emily Dickinson was hinting at these things -- at anger and constraint -- when she wrote this poem.

Here's the poem for your eyes:


My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -
In Corners - till a Day
The Owner passed - identified -
And carried Me away -
And now We roam in Sovereign Woods -
And now We hunt the Doe -
And every time I speak for Him -
The Mountains straight reply -
And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the Valley glow -
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let its pleasure through -
And when at Night - Our good Day done -
I guard My Master's Head -
'Tis better than the Eider-Duck's
Deep Pillow - to have shared -
To foe of His - I'm deadly foe -
None stir the second time -
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye -
Or an emphatic Thumb -
Though I than He - may longer live
He longer must - than I -
For I have but the power to kill,
Without--the power to die--


And here's the poem, read by Juliet Stevenson (!) for your ears:


Emily Dickinson - My Life Had Stood A Loaded Gun by poetictouch

All I've got is cake, some Emily Dickinson (who loved to bake them) and some Lord Byron (who loved another kind of cake)

Love's oven is warm

Emily Dickinson

 (from one of her letters)

from Don Juan, Canto 1, Stanzas 60-63

60

Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes)

   Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire

Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise

   Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire,

And love than either; and there would arise

   A something in them which was not desire,

But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul

Which struggled through and chasten'd down the whole.

61

Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow

   Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth;

Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow,

   Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth,

Mounting at times to a transparent glow,

   As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth,

Possess'd an air and grace by no means common:

Her stature tall—I hate a dumpy woman.

62

Wedded she was some years, and to a man

   Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty;

And yet, I think, instead of such a ONE

   'Twere better to have TWO of five-and-twenty,

Especially in countries near the sun:

   And now I think on't, 'mi vien in mente,'

Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue

Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty.

63

'Tis a sad thing, I cannot choose but say,

   And all the fault of that indecent sun,

Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay,

   But will keep baking, broiling, burning on,

That howsoever people fast and pray,

   The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone:

What men call gallantry, and gods adultery,

Is much more common where the climate 's sultry.

Happy Birthday, Emily Dickinson

Here's something short and sweet:



And here's something I've posted before that'll blow your mind:

Quiet Soul

March, 2001

The Soul Selects Her Own Society

The Soul selects her own Society --
Then -- shuts the Door --
To her divine Majority --
Present no more --

Unmoved -- she notes the Chariots -- pausing --
At her low Gate --
Unmoved -- an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat --

I've known her -- from an ample nation --
Choose One --
Then -- close the Valves of her attention --
Like Stone -- 

Emily Dickinson

Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat?
Then crouch within the door —
Red — is the Fire's common tint —
But when the vivid Ore
Has vanquished Flame's conditions,
It quivers from the Forge
Without a color, but the light
Of unanointed Blaze.
Least Village has its Blacksmith
Whose Anvil's even ring
Stands symbol for the finer Forge
That soundless tugs — within —
Refining these impatient Ores
With Hammer, and with Blaze
Until the Designated Light
Repudiate the Forge —

Emily Dickinson

Again, Life is a Loaded Gun

I've posted this before and was in need of it.

Fan yourself.

So, it's Monday morning, my favorite day of the week, and I've eaten the above digestive biscuits that I made yesterday -- not all of them -- for breakfast with my coffee. It's raining -- raining! raining in May in Los Angeles! -- the boys and Sophie are off to school, and it's a perfect day for an Emily Dickinson poem. This one is a tad obtuse, but if you read it aloud a couple of times, I think it'll make sense.

The Brain

The brain is wider than the sky,
For, put them side by side, 
The one the other will include
With ease, and you beside.

The brain is deeper than the sea,
For, hold them, blue to blue,
The one the other will absorb,
As sponges, buckets do.

The brain is just the weight of God,
For, lift them, pound for pound,
And they will differ, if they do,
As syllable from sound.

Emily Dickinson

Reader, what is your Monday like?

Rattled

The perfume bottles rattle when the dryer is on, a click a tinkle as the clothes tumble silently under the smile of Sophie sitting in the ranunculus field, a world away.

An old woman with one black sock and a flip-flop pushed a cart down the street this morning, reached into the blue cans, fishing for plastic and bottles before the truck came by, rattling.

He sneezed so many times in the early hours of the morning that I woke up from a dream of water and sticks floating, a house with open doors, rattled.

I Dwell in Possibility --
A fairer House than Prose --
More numerous of Windows --
Superior -- for Doors --

Of Chambers as the Cedars --
Impregnable of Eye --
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky --

Of Visitors -- the fairest --
For Occupation -- This --
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise --

Emily Dickinson

Merry Christmas Eve!

(in a Monday mustache)

The Savior must have been a docile gentleman (1487)

The Savior must have been

A docile Gentleman -

To come so far so cold a Day

For little Fellowmen -

The road to Bethlehem

Since He and I were boys

Was leveled, but for that 'twould be

A rugged Billion Miles -

Emily Dickinson

One step at a time

We put the lights on the tree last night and draped the gold tinsel. We hung this year's new ornaments that I give each child and The Husband every year, but that was all. In keeping with a more relaxed version of the holidays, that was all we did. We'll continue to hang our beautiful ornaments over the next few days and hopefully get some help in putting lights on the outside. Oliver, as always, wants to add to the already outrageous amount of crap we have, but I was able to put the nay on his suggestion for a big blow-up snowman.

One day at a time, I whispered into Oliver's ear this morning when I hugged him good-bye before school. He's been having an inordinately difficult time the past few weeks, enough to make me sick with worry, but I'm trying to take it slow, acknowledge that I'm doing everything I can to help him, one step at a time. I've been doing this for so long with Sophie, you'd think it would be a piece of cake with a typical kid, but it's not.

It's Emily Dickinson's birthday today, one of my favorite poets. Here's a random poem I plucked out of my book of her collected poetry, perfect for the season.

The Savior must have been A docile Gentleman— To come so far so cold a Day For little Fellowmen— The Road to Bethlehem Since He and I were Boys Was leveled, but for that 'twould be A rugged Billion Miles—